A Brand-New Disease
by ClockworkPilot
Summary: A Lovecraft-Cthulhu Mythos fanfiction set in a morden day settings. Please Read and Review! Arigato Swordfeather-san!


Plague Bearer  
  
or "The Horror of a Poe-Lovecraft Crossover.."  
  
a Cthulhu Mythos fanfiction  
  
by one Clockwork Pilot  
  
Notes: I'm not a complete expert on the Mythos, so please forgive any misinformation and spelling errors. I wasn't incredibly impressed by this story, but my Honors English teacher was excited by it so I decided to post it here. The assignment was to write a story using the writing styles and some of writing themes of Edgar Allen Poe. So, in essence, I told a Cthulhu Mythos story using Poe's somewhat dramatic and fluffy writing style. Also, the poem at the end of the story is somewhat misquoted, but I can't find the book I found it in as of current so it remain as such until I can find the proper verse.  
  
If you decide to review, I would like to let you know I am totally in favor of constructive cristism...the only thing you could do to annoy is post something that offers absolutely nothing like "It was okay. It could be better." If you don't like my writing style at all (which is not this fluffy, normally) please tell me why and if you have any suggestions on how to improve tell me.  
  
Without further Ado...  
  
Otaku Studios Presents:  
  
"A BRAND-NEW DISEASE"  
  
::thunder and insane laughter can be heard::  
  
A Honors English Production  
  
::more insane laughter, then "Evil English, that is!" more laughing, followed by a continual, violent coughing fit, and then "I'm okay, really..."::  
  
I had been waiting alongside the same gray, grim-covered highway for the past three hours, sitting among patches of sterile dark-brown dirt and white grass sickly and withered like still-born children. The weather was unnaturally overcast that day, a thick blanket of vague gray-black engulfing every inch of visible sky. Misguided, confused seagulls flew overhead in search of the ocean coast, croaking out dryly in dismay. Cars of every make and model, from proud, elegant "luxury vehicles" to rust- encrusted time-worn minivans passed me by without a second glance (this can be attributed to my appearance of a serial killer torn from the pages of True Tales of Madness and Murder).  
  
My sleep-depraved eyes were sunken and inflamed as if by some unknown fever, thick, greasy brown-yellow ooze collecting in my tear ducts and underneath my eyelids (later on I would find, looking in a rear view mirror, that it gave me an almost ghoulish appearance.) Undesired sideburns and an overgrowth of unattractive black stubble along my jaw line were being to form. I had overheard conversation at the local gas station that an asylum for the criminally insane was somewhere nearby, making hitchhiking next-to-impossible. Despite the problems my Harley-Davidson was having-deep, almost pained groans from the bowels of her premium-oil coated workings, I dared to push forward arrive in time for the freelance writers convention.  
  
A week ago my agent had informed me a well-renown publisher had contacted him. He was interested in one of my earlier works and wanted to meet me at the aforementioned location. Not being one to miss any opportunity for good business, I quickly loaded up on the most basic provisions, my writing journal, and gas money. Goldsmith drove me halfway, my Harley bulging out of the opened trunk of his BMW, a blood-filled boil on his silver-lavender beauty. More than once we were forced to pullover to secure the bungee cords that kept my vehicle from tumbling across the pavement like oversized metallic tumbleweed. After brief farewells and my wallet significantly reduced due to the gas tab I was forced to pick up, I was given the much-desired privilege of solo travel. The convention was not quite 10 hours away and I still had some odd 100 miles of lonely road to cover. I rode for roughly half an hour at the speed of 86 miles per hour with no highway patrolman in sight, watching the dismal landscape go by me like a faded, silent, and arcane black-and-white movie, chattering in and out of existence in dusty projection machine, a cool, artificial wind cutting into my face, icy fingers running sharp, unkempt nails over my eyes, pulling my hair tight against my scalp and tugging thin tears down my cheeks. A sharp, guttural groan filled my ears as my motorcycle began to suddenly slow. The once-constant rumble of the engine fell silent and a thick, evil-smelling odor like rotted food and unmentionable filth began to overwhelm my senses.  
  
I cursed under my breath, letting my bike continue to roll forward driven by the mundane laws of the universe. After a few minutes of traveling this way I skidded to the side of the highway and gently, slowly applied pressure to the dirt and concrete with my heel until I came to a halt, a small cloud of dust and gas kicking up around me. I sat on my bike and waited, smoking, counting the cars and keeping track of their colors. I walked for a while, pushing my motor in front of me as I marched forward. Not being a man of great strength or endurance I quickly abandoned the idea after one-half of a mile. I let the blood-red bike fall to her side with a muffled clang, a wounded Calvary horse. We clattered to the ground together; I rested on her side panel. And I waited, and smoked, cursed, and waited.  
  
Rain was an inevitable truth solid as death. Why else would the seagulls be so misdirected? The gloomy hue of the sky offered no other possibly, save a typhoon or hurricane. As the first thick, heavy raindrops came thundering down, miniature H-bombs, pounding against my temple and matting down my hair, I had lost all hope. Everything seemed distant and artificial, the convention a million miles away from me and the soggy mud under my palms like plastic or foam. I could no longer feel the freezing rain as it seeped into my skin. The cars running past me sounded like nothing more than the whining of a far-off insect. It didn't matter, the convention, the rain, my Harley. I was in a state of pure, shining apathy.  
  
I stumbled backwards as I was brought back to reality by the sounds of grinding rubble and a blaring car horn. Thunder echoed off into the distance as the black relic of a hulking automobile pulled up beside me, headlights glaring and evil. Its angles were sharp as daggers, seeming to curl upward into a sadistic grin. The door opened with a wide creak and the slim figure of the woman leaned from the driver's side, called my name and asked me to get inside.  
  
It took me a moment to gather my wits before I understood the situation. Obviously, she was attending the convention as well, and recognized me from the hack job photograph on the back of one my novels. I stared blankly into the faded black on the car door for a moment, finally feeling the mud on the seat of my pants, " Do you have room in your trunk for my motor?"  
  
"Yeah, hold on, Ill help you get it in..."  
  
The car is as massive as a hearse, my seat is synthetic fur and the heater is droning on and on. I put my soaked hands in front of the vents and was surprised how the heat blowing out singes my fingers. I wonder briefly if luck intervenes with fate. I thank her with every cell that composes my structure. She tells me it's not a problem, she's honored to have a talented writer with her. Her face is mass of thick, greasy tendrils that cling to her face, temple, and neck like parasites. I could tell she very was once very beautiful, sharp features worn to a dull edge by sunken- in eyes, glossy black eyelids like a rotted fruit, and dark bruises along her neck and face. The skin on her forehead and cheek is peeling away of flaking off. Her beautiful blue eyes were empty and abandoned, her pale pink lips frost with dead skin. She said nothing for a while, sometimes gnawing at her lips to rip away the dead tissue, tearing away new skin the process, blood dribbling down her chin. She wipes it away casually and tells me her name and place of residence. She's a freelance writer/poet/staff writer at the local paper/waitress at the International House of Pancakes. She knows she condemned to obscurity as a writer, but she doesn't care, or at least that's what she claims. She tells me she's going to attempt to revive the Cthulhu Mythos, much like Howard Phillips Lovecraft made it common knowledge. Her eyes flicker like the tiny spark that all infernos begin as.  
  
I told her I had only read Lovecraft once, in high school. While writing-wise it was perfectly sound, I had no taste for the macabre.  
  
Her face pulled into a thin smile, gorging her tongue in the scarlet wound on her lower lip. She spoke of the beginning of the world we know live on, a cooling mass of lava and gases. She explained how wave after wave of alien beings came to world, some gods in their own right, called the Great Old Ones. Elder Things had created all native life on the planet by experimentation on the tissues of Ubbo-Sathla, an mindless writhing mass that spawns miniatures of itself, usually devouring its own young. She went on to describe Cthulhu, who came from the stars and built the great city R'lyeh where his children, the star-spawn lived. After the stars changed shifted R'lyeh sank into the sea, bringing Cthulhu down with it. Now Cthulhu waits dreaming for the when the stars are once again in the correct position, and when that day comes, he will rise and devour the world. Life seemed to be returning to her eyes, her face flushed with a sudden rush of blood to her face and temple. She smiled as she spoke; she was like one describing a long-lost lover or an avid churchgoer's opinion of God.  
  
With each moment that went by her voice seemed to rise in pitch and double in its previous intensity; her speech was planned and practiced, clear and concise in its purpose, in spite of its overbearing volume. As she spoke, her voice flooded the interior of the car, causing the windows to quiver anxiously and shaking the crimson rust off the ancient door handles. I also felt its almost unnatural influence on matter, like a foreign sprit forcing itself under my skin, sinking into my pores and the marrow of my bones. She spoke with the pride and conviction of an Evangelist, as if to claim my very soul and gain my full understanding by force of voice and volume.  
  
She began to lecture on the Outer Gods, cosmic forces and principals incarnate that dwell beyond our dimension, or between dimensions, unseen by our mediocre perceptions. "The greatest of them is Azathoth, the Daemon Sultan. He is both blind and...," she paused momentarily, a pained expression on her face. She freed one hand from the steering wheel, reaching over to grab a once-lovely silken handkerchief from the musty dashboard. Instantly I realized its use from the dark red and black stains covering it. With a look of embarrassment she cupped her hand over her mouth and coughed crudely. As bright streams of blood and pink tissue spewed into the ruined cloth, a sickly wrenching sound filled the air. This went on for several minutes, her eyes squinted painfully with each convulsion, not daring to take her focus off the road. Her body tensed up and remained perfectly still.  
  
In the awkward silence that followed I watched the car slowly shift direction, finally stopping at the curb. Wordlessly she opened the door and ran outside to vomit violently on the ground. I can hardly put to justice the horror I witnessed for what seemed like hours. It was as if her own body was filled with self-disgust and contempt, desperately trying to purge itself of some offending substance, ever if it mean losing blood and force of life in the process.  
  
Again and again her body wretched forward to vomit-none of the contents expelled resembled food, whole or digested. A black slime not unlike bile could be seen in the mud, and a yellow gelatinous substance very much like fat. The amount of blood became less and less, going from pink to crimson to brown. She writhed like a maggot or dieing insect; she would tremble intensely, her face a mixture of revulsion and shame, a faint blush of strain coloring her neck and cheeks, the whole time kneeling in a cesspool of muddy water and her own rejected fluid. Then she arose with the manner of a aristocrat, wiping the mud away from her knees and shins. The rain had washed the grease away from her hair, and she had the expression of one composed and refreshed, as if emerging from a relaxing shower. She reentered the car and restarted the engine," You'll have to excuse me," she apologized, slamming the door shut, " but I can help it, I'm dieing, you understand."  
  
"Why don't you see a doctor?" I demanded, infuriated by this woman's lack of common sense.  
  
"I have, and its rather hopeless" We were on the road again, the car's furnace of a heater blasting away.  
  
"Cancer?"  
  
"No, I'm afraid not"  
  
"An S.T.D? A.I.D.S?"  
  
She laughed, low and mocking," Don't insult my intelligence. I'm not without not enough sense to use a goddamn rubber."  
  
"Then what?"  
  
Her voice suddenly became small and quiet, a tiny dormouse "I've realized I've given by far too much information you, sir. I wish that we would end this conversation..." lips draw-up inside her mouth, nervously gnashing and gnawing at them, swallowing the blood she drew before it spilled on her face.  
  
She spoke no more of her mysterious ailment, or the Mythos. Her grip on the wheel was anxious and tight, skin draw tight over her knuckles. Her teeth clenched and ground together, her nostrils' flared- something was on her mind, something secret, something dark and unknown to me, and I began to doubt my safety. I though of ways to escape, to knock her unconscious and take over the wheel, to unlock my safety built, open the door fling my fragile body out of the car. I quickly saw the foolishness in such actions, however; should I fumble we would both would die in a mess of twisted metal and burnt fur, and even if I was to successfully roll out onto the pavement, would she not think to turn the car around and run me down with it?  
  
I must have been shaking, for she turned to me and spoke, gently," I apologize, sir. Its just the information you are asking for is a very personal matter. But I realize its of very little difference in the end. Do you still want to know what I'm suffering from?," it was already dark outside, the thick clouds had rolled away revealing intensely bright stars. The edge of the moon was peaking over the horizon, sad and white," But I must warn you- you'll probably call me mad, although what I say is as true as I breath and that blood runs in my veins." her voice was solemn and disquieted. The world seemed more surreal, less solid as we drove on, as if the mundane universe was falling away to reveal a dark mirror of the material world, driven by chaos in place of order. Slowly, she began to smile and a heart skipped a beat.  
  
"The Outer Gods are blind and idiotic, only aware of themselves and nothing esle. Those who worship them are equally stupid, since their god is too oblivious to care or acknowledge their existence. Therefore, should they not merely be forces to be manipulated, for they are same as forces of nature, driven only by the nature of what they represent?"  
  
"What does this have to do with anything? I don't care about this Mythos stuff anymore"  
  
She glared at me, she eyes reflecting the pale moonlight," Do you want to hear about my disease or not? Just shut up and listen.  
  
"Narlecotep is the messenger of the Outer Gods. He is the only one aware of the world and humans, the only one with a true intelligence or personally. He mocks his masters but serves them faithfully, taking vengeance on those who have offended them. He loves to cause chaos and havoc rather than death or destruction. There are a thousand possible forms he could take, and he is worshipped in his various guises.  
  
"I have read the Kitab Al-Kikif, the book of the approacher. I have read the Book of Eibon in her variants and Nameless Cults. I have researched and delved into the Mythos, studying the various magiks, and how to summon beings and Gods. I came to understand the true nature of the universe and the insignifgance of man. I sought a way to manipulate the forces that are the Outer Gods, perhaps to gain immortally and become a truly powerful being and not some obscure mortal.  
  
"I formed a small cult of simpletons to worship Narlecotep, in the form of the Twilight Beast, a sphix with stars in his eyes. For three years we sacrificed humans in his name, in the hopes that when we called him, he would arrive. We finally preformed the ritual, and he appeared before us, grinning and wicked. I bowed low as his head priestess and gave him a thousand thanks for gracing us with his magnificent presence. After gifts were offered and speeches made, I rose up and spoke Narlecotep's true name and attempted to cast a binding ritual, thinking he would be rendered powerless but to obey me. Much to my horror I saw his true name gave me no power over him and he knocked me over with a swipe of his paw, 'Little bicth, what would make you so arrogant as you believe you could command me? Lair, heretic, fool! For this sacrilege you shall know torment like no other!' His claws dug into my throat and I knew death would soon be upon me. But then...something, like acid, like poison, a venomous red liquid began to flow from his claws into into my veins. It was then that he left, laughing heartily as he disappeared to another dimension. The other worshippers fell upon me, accusing me of the same crimes as Narlecotep, stabbing me, hitting me and kicking me until I was as good as dead. I laid in the open fields where we had performed the ceremony, and I soon passed away from conscious.  
  
"The big surprise when I woke up was that I woke up at all. I still felt the wounds and bruises on my body, but I was very much alive. I felt as if my blood had been contaminated, some alien substance being pumping through my heart every moment. Life went on as normal, my bones and bruises healing with time. I attempted to shrug off the incident, until I began to vomit anything I ate. If I didn't eat I would vomit stomach acid, so I ate constantly because I didn't want to see what I would vomit after the acid. Well...at least now we know, huh?," She laughed to herself insanely, "My face lost all color, every square inch of my skin was as dry as sand, peeling away like a sunburn, I felt as if my intestines were rotting on the inside.  
  
"But I didn't starve, and I didn't die. I was a parody of life itself, writhing and squirming, a thing that should not live, yet continues to. I knew this was his curse, his punishment for my arrogance. Finally, limping, vomiting, I preformed the ritual to summon Narlecotep by myself, with some difficulty in acquiring a sacrifice.  
  
"On a whim he appeared to me, in the form an Egytian man, worshipped by the Cult of The Pharaoh in Cario and parts of London. `Not so mighty now, eh, little wizard?'  
  
I bowed, this time in true humility, beseeching his forgiveness. I asked for the privilege of death and he denied me. Then I offered anything, anything at all if he would only take this horrid disease away from me. We stuck a deal and made a pact...that eventually, all the systems would go away if I would be the bearer of the disease, and spread its influence as far as I could...there were other things I promised, but I can't mention them..."  
  
I remembered to breathe, a sharp intake as my heart pounded against my ribcage. I knew everything that she said was true, although no conventional logic or reasoning supported it. Struggling to think, I was frozen place by my cold terror and panic. I though of my body tearing itself apart, my skin hot and inflamed and peeling off like a snake's, my guts bloating and rotting, and how every nerve in my body would send me screaming in agony. Her grin was lazy and knowing like a cat's," Well, now you know, huh? Ignorance is bliss..."  
  
"Yes...," I though for a moment I could feel my stomach churn.  
  
"Were still going to the convention, of course. I mean, you still want to get your last contribuations to society before it's all over?..."  
  
"I'll kill you and end this..." My arms were refusing the respond, the inside of my body was a hot liquid core, shifting and swimming in my weak flesh encasement, "I'll kill..."  
  
In the moonlight, in the darkness, with the churning of the engine, she began to laugh again, a knowing laugh, in a haughty, mocking tone of someone that knows all the secrets but isn't telling. My eyelids behind to close and as I drifted to sleep, or death, and she began to sing; a beautiful, low and haunting melody:  
  
"Silence falls on Mecca's walls  
  
and true believers turn to stone  
  
a fell wind comes from above  
  
and rattles from wall to bone  
  
and to harlot of the priest  
  
comes one no man has ever known  
  
Darkness falls on Mecca's walls  
  
and among the cornices and groins  
  
A scorpion weaves its trail of doom-  
  
A woman bears her pulsing loins  
  
to One within the shadowy room"  
  
The song drifted in my mind for a while, as I struggled to stay awake, to move, to somehow end this horror, but to no avail. My last conscious memory as the last line of the song, echoing in my head as I drifted away;  
  
"...the doom of men,  
  
The woman laughs, and laughs again"  
  
  
  
  
  
Notes: "Silence Falls on Mecca's Walls" quoted from "Cthulhu: The Mythos and Other Kindred Horrors" 


End file.
